Sunday, April 29, 2012

Kampala--Dangers and Annoyances*

Earlier this week, I got tear-gassed.

Okay, that makes it sound as though I
was the target, and that I got it right where it hurts, and I wasn’t and I
didn’t.The power kept going off at
Makerere, which was okay for a while.But in the afternoon, as the angle of the sun changed, it was getting
increasingly difficult to decipher the 1960s newspapers I was scanning
anxiously for signs of wildlife, and rather than falsely-document wildlife
developments of the period, I decided to head for home.My early departure was fortuitous as it
turned out.I’d no sooner dropped my bag
in my room and begun reading Mark Twain’s Roughing
It when the chaos broke out in the streets in front of and behind the place
where I’m staying.

It seems that there is a difference of
opinion in Uganda’s Muslim community about the election process that is about
to unfold, and that this had spilled over into fisticuffs as one group marched
towards the Gaddafi mosque to have words with the target of their ire, and were
met along the way (just in front of our building, it so happened) by a rival faction.At the time I had no idea what was going on,
and merely heard a great deal of shouting outside.Moments later, this gave way to shooting, as
the chuckleheaded Ugandan police, who looked like they were on their way to a
Storm Trooper-themed party, rolled up and began firing live rounds into the
air, and apparently into the crowd, since I just heard that they killed one
person (though the newspapers haven’t reported this).

I’d had my suspicions about the
marksmanship of the police, who swagger around town pointing their guns every
which way.Some of them twirl them
around their hands, like you see little kids doing with sticks.To the inexpert eye, some of the weapons look
like they’ve seen better days, perhaps back around 1930.So when the shooting started, I got a bit
jumpy myself.Unsure of whether the
correct procedure was to lie on the floor, flatten myself against the wall, or stand
up and yell “I surrender!”, I took the middle path and wandered towards the
front of the building to see what all the trouble was about (I’ve got loads of
common sense, it’s just sometimes a bit slow to kick in).The people pummelling each other out on the
street apparently realised that they were completely safe so long as the police
were trying to hit them, and so they continued their efforts to do each other harm.

I no sooner reached the door and peeked
out at the riot (for I cannot, however charitable I’d like to be, characterise
it as anything else) than I was forced to beat a hasty retreat when my worst
fears about police shooting was confirmed, and tear gas canisters began
exploding close enough that I could see the flashes.Some of them ricocheted around the yard
upstairs, and one of the caretakers went by, performing the kind of evasive
action you’d presumably have used in World War I trenches during a gas attack.In no time I was coughing and wheezing, and
my eyes were smarting and tearing.So
looking, undoubtedly, like I’d just lost my whole family, I scurried to the
bathroom and stuck my head under the shower.

I
was not present at the O.K. Corral, but I
imagine spectators at that venerable event must have felt similarly
disconcerted.When I turned off the
water, the clouds of tear gas had dissipated.Either some of the police fire must have accidentally gone home, or else
the officers had ordered their men to train their weapons south towards Lake
Victoria in the hopes that some of their fire might boomerang about and alight amidst
the rioters in Old Kampala.

Gradually, the fighting began to wane,
and the shooting was reduced to an odd ‘bang’ here and there.I sat down and started back in on Roughing It, waiting until someone
sounded the all-clear to go back outside.

-----

* Having exhausted my creative powers, I
hereby declare my intention to plagiarise all of my titles from Lonely Planet headings.They can sue me for everything I don’t have.

About Me

I hail from northern California (known to reactionary dreamers as “The State of Jefferson”), and am the fifth generation of my family to live in the Golden State. Now I live next-door in the Silver State, where I research and write about colonialism in Africa, teach European and colonial history, and write a self-indulgent blog mostly about politics, sometimes about history, and occasionally about my efforts to navigate that strange place called “The World Beyond California”. Until they discover that I’ve flown the coop, this blog also appears on the website of the Redding Record Searchlight. In my spare time, I look for new hiking trails, or return to old favorites.